


Janine

by Bitsy



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: Gen, Headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-07
Updated: 2010-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-08 18:33:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitsy/pseuds/Bitsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She's so like my sister-in-law Janine it's untrue."<br/>"Camille looks like your sister-in-law?  What happened, was she involved in some sort of horrific car accident?"<br/>"Who, Janine?  No, of course not, she was a model!"</p><p>A little bit of what we like to call "headcanon."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Janine

The first time he'd ever clapped eyes on Janine Joslin, it was lust at first sight. He was home on leave, forcing himself on his family, at his mother's insistence, because Frank was getting married. _Getting married._ Twenty-seven years old, and Frank was getting married. That was just unconscionable. Oh, sure, he was successful and wealthy and had a dazzling future ahead of him, but that was no reason to be going off and getting married. What a cavalier attitude towards a sacred institution. Twenty-seven. If the man had any sense, he'd at least wait until he'd hit the big Three-Oh. Or, better still, the even bigger Four-Oh. Or, best of all, never.

The thought of Frank getting everything he ever wanted while he, Arnold, was still stuck jamming pipe-cleaners up chicken soup nozzles...it just about made him apoplectic with jealousy.

He nurtured a secret hope that his brother had fallen in love with a hippo. An obvious gold-digger. A classless tart that would humiliate his family, cause his mother shame, cause his father a stroke. A scarlet witch who'd get his brother stripped of rank and tossed out of the Corps. GOD he hoped for all of these things.

The house on Io was exactly as he remembered it, a decade later, with the same lace doilies over the couch arms, the same porcelain ornaments quietly gathering dust on small side tables. The walls still held countless pictures of the family, none of which featured him. And, no matter how old he got, no matter how far away his career in the Corps took him, whenever he walked through the front door of that house, he was seven years old again. Seven years old, a hopeless little oink, a thick, helpless halfwit who was waiting for the rack, who was dizzy with hunger.

He exchanged meaningless pleasantries with his mother, grunted a hello at his father, and retreated to his room. They'd long since turned his bedroom into a storage area; he'd be forced to sleep on a folding cot that pinched fingers and collapsed if you breathed on it. He was crowded out of his own room by boxes of Christmas ornaments, and broken furniture, and the cat's litter box. It was as homey as a petrol station bathroom, but he had nowhere else to go. For he certainly wasn't going to socialize with his family, not if he could help it. His two week long furlough was stretching before him, an eternity of painful boredom. An eternity of painful boredom which was sure to be punctuated by bright, fiery points of painful humiliation.

That was when the door to his room opened unexpectedly, and a beautiful woman walked in. She stopped cold, though, upon seeing him.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I thought this was the loo."

Rimmer jumped up from his cot, his heart hammering in his chest. The woman in front of him was tall and slender, with a face that was classic in its beauty. Her chestnut hair was stick-straight and shining, and her brown eyes held promises of tender love. She had such an effect on him that he didn't draw the obvious conclusion as to who she was. He had never, in his whole life, wanted a woman more than he wanted her in that moment.

"Ah! No. Ah, that's down the hall a bit. On the right," he added unnecessarily. "I hope there's toilet paper for you. I can get you some if you want."

Oh god what a stupid thing to say.

But the girl just chuckled, if a bit nervously, and shook her head. "I'm sure it'll be fine," she answered. Rimmer was struck by her accent. It was mainly British, but there was a soft blurring of certain consonants. French, perhaps? Or Spanish?

"I'm Arnold," he said, jerkily sticking out his hand, praying that she'd take it. Praying that she'd touch him.

"I'm Janine." She did indeed shake his hand, but pulled her hand away very quickly. "I'm Frank's fiancee."

The collapse inside of him was thunderous. It was like experiencing the destruction of an iceberg, with sheets and sheets of Arctic chill cascading into frigid waters. The ice slithered down his spine and crushed all his internal organs, and froze his heart solid. That collapse wasn't echoed on his face, amazingly enough. Instead, his face pulled into a rictus grin, as he forced himself to be pleasant to the woman who was soon to be his sister-in-law.

"Oh," he said weakly, covering his shock with a braying laugh. "So you're the infamous Janine. It's...nice to meet you."

She stared at him oddly, and nodded. "Yes. And you're Frank's youngest brother. He's told me about you."

Armies of paranoia and loathing quickly marched in armed formations around his brain, knowing exactly what Frank had told Janine. He was absolutely certain that his brother had filled this beautiful girl full of poisonous lies. ...Or at least half-truths. He just knew that the next words out of her mouth were going to be, 'He said you were a complete smeghead.'

"Did he, now?"

"Yes." But she didn't elaborate, and started to back out of the room. "I'm going to find the bathroom now. It was nice to meet you, Arnold."

And then she was gone, before he could react. He sank down onto his cot with a groan, head buried in his hands. Well, he had been right. The furlough was to be a torturous one, even worse than he'd imagined. And the wedding wasn't for another ten days. He'd have to sit at meals with her, and chat pleasantly with her, and watch her go about the business of loving that prat Frank. He was already nauseous with the thought of her kissing Frank, of Frank sticking his tongue down her throat and his hand down her pants. Rimmer shuddered, disgusted, and squeezed at his head to drive that vision out. And then, worst of all, he'd have to sit in an uncomfortable church pew and watch her marry the goit, all official and proper. And _that_ thought made his entire frame jerk in abject misery.

That was when the cot collapsed beneath him, dumping him on his arse and banging his head against a box of old clothes.

***

After that disastrous first impression, Rimmer was determined to make it up to her. He would be charming. She would warm to him. He would put aside the desire to trap her in a quiet corner and lift her skirt up. And someday, maybe...well, who knew? Maybe her marriage would be a miserable one. Maybe he could eventually convince her to divorce Frank and be with him instead. Maybe, if he played his cards just right, she'd call off the wedding and run away with him to Titan.

He tried, he really did. He forced himself to smile around his family, to shake his brother's hand and congratulate him. He even pretended to be happy for him, and he thought he did a smegging fine job at that. He sat through awkward family breakfasts, while John and Howard nattered on about their successful careers, and his mother gushed praise over their heads like a broken water main. He squirmed through the looks his father gave him, the looks of sneering contempt and pointed disgust, silently berating his youngest son for not being as good as John or Howard or Frank.

And he followed Janine around like a lost and pathetic little puppy dog. Not blatantly, mind you. Not obviously. But there were a few surprising coincidences; he'd turn up in the living room just as she did, he'd be there just in time to pass the salt, he'd randomly bump into her in the garden or on her way out to run last-minute errands. Of course, they were never alone when this happened; some other member of the family would be immediately nearby, spoiling his chances to get her alone and talk to her.

Every night. _Every_ night. As he drifted off to sleep in his uncomfortable, draughty cot, he swore he could hear the subtle, insidious sounds of squeaking bed springs just down the hall, as Frank and Janine made love. Under his parents' roof, no less! Before the wedding! That was just completely wrong, it shouldn't be happening. He was almost wishing that his mother would lay down the law and put a stop to it, but he knew she wouldn't; Frank was her favourite. He could commit multiple messy cannibalistic ritual murders and mother would still find some way to make it sound like he shat ice cream.

Then, the day before the wedding, Rimmer had his chance.

Frank, John and Howard were going out to Frank's stag night party. Of course they'd not invited him. They'd pointedly not invited him. They'd talked about it endlessly, in his hearing, but never once turned to their little brother and said, 'How 'bout it, Arnie? Want to tag along?' Of course not. Father was down the pub, too, enjoying the company of his good sons. And mother...mother was out with her coffee klatch, gossiping and twittering about how lovely her new daughter-in-law-to-be was. He was alone with Janine in the house, and neither of them had any plans. She wasn't even going out to visit with her own family, staying at a hotel down the road. She was staying in, claiming she needed rest before her big day.

Rimmer knew, he just _knew_, that that was simply her excuse. His careful plotting and his charming wit had landed her, and she was snatching at the barest reason to get him alone. It would happen. It was bound to happen. It was fate. Kismet. His head buzzed with visions of loving sighs and careless promises and spectacular shagging sessions in his brother's bed.

She was curled up on the sofa, dressed in a set of comfortable clothes, a throw blanket around her shoulders. She was reading a thin volume of poetry, completely absorbed in it. That told him enough; she wasn't even rehearsing her vows. Why bother, when they wouldn't be said?

Slinking into the living room, he sat down on an armchair opposite her, and turned on the television. His eyes darted sideways at her, to see if this had the intended effect of distracting her, but she didn't even blink. She just turned the page of her book. Sexily. Alluringly. How was it possible to read a book at somebody sexily, he thought to himself. She could blow her nose into her bare fingers and he'd find it enchanting.

"So," he started in a bright, chipper tone of voice. "Tomorrow's the big day."

She glanced up, startled, as if she hadn't even noticed he was in the room with her until he spoke. "Mm," she agreed noncommittally, as she returned to her reading. That only encouraged him further.

"Are you nervous?"

"Not really," she answered, eyes still on her book.

"Oh," he said, discouraged. Then he rallied. "And everything's done, then? All the flowers and the dress and the cake and everything?"

"Mm."

"Good. Good. Erm. Would you like me to treat you to dinner or something tonight? Last hoorah sort of celebration? Since Frank's out with the lads, and all."

"...No," she said quietly, glancing at him. "I don't think so."

"B-But..."

"Arnold, really. It's sweet of you to offer, but I really do need the rest before the wedding. I've got to be up at five AM tomorrow to start getting ready. I'll be going to sleep soon."

"I wouldn't keep you out late," he protested with a stammer. "Just a quick bite to eat down at Maison d'Ambrosia, or something." Oh, good. Well done. Maison d'Ambrosia was only the most exclusive, most expensive, most _romantic_ restaurant on all of Io. That was the dumbest of dumb things to say. It made his plans blindingly obvious. He tried to backtrack. "Or McDonald's. Whichever."

She blinked at him owlishly, her perfect face registering her confusion. "No. No, really. I've already eaten, in any event."

"Cocktails?" he bulled onward, desperate to get her to agree to something, _anything._ Anything that would mean they were out on a date.

She finally put the book of poetry aside, and stood up, trailing that blanket after her. She didn't look angry, or upset, or annoyed, or even disgusted. She just looked firm.

"No, Arnold."

"But why not?" he whined. He didn't even hear the tone in his voice, that high-pitched, grating whine of a flustered, spoiled brat.

"Because the fact of the matter is that I don't particularly like you very much."

She stabbed him in the heart. She removed his testicles with a serving spoon. She scooped out his liver and ate it raw. She laughed at him as he burned to death in a blazing inferno. She danced a tango on his grave, and then desecrated it with graffiti. She shot his remains into a nuclear waste disposal dump and then detonated it with a perfectly manicured finger on a button.

He couldn't speak. He couldn't move. He felt like he was turned to stone, which would shatter into gravel at any moment and scatter across his mother's perfect living room.

"So I think it would be best if you just...stopped, okay? Good night, Arnold."

And with that, she picked up her book again and vanished upstairs.

How long he sat there, he didn't know. When he came to himself again, he was no longer in the house, even. He'd somehow gone through the mechanical motions of putting on his coat and wandering outdoors. He found himself in a park, in the dead of night, sitting on a child's swing set and blubbering quietly to himself.

Came the dawn, he was nowhere to be found. He did not attend his brother's wedding, and not one person remarked on his absence. He missed the pictures, and the cutting of the cake, and the bride and the groom smashing said cake into each other's faces, and the endless reception line, and the flinging of her perfect garter. He missed it all. He'd gone back to the empty house, during the reception, gathered up his meager belongings, kicked the cot in frustration, and hopped the first shuttle back to his ship.

And that was the last time he clapped eyes on Janine Rimmer, neé Joslin.


End file.
